Nipple rings. I’ve been obsessed with them lately. The desire to impale something so sensitive tells of some beautiful neural highways I would love to drive. The vines on her dark skin crawled up the side of her breast, and from my position behind her, it tangled with my fingers, through her rings, and helped squeeze the way she liked it. I loosened my grip so that her breasts sat in my hand, and the sway from each thrust made her nipples brush my calloused palms, and they stiffened.
Because it was Her, I was in heaven. I wished I could slip my middle fingers through her rings and keep her captive. My face would land in her neck and my hip bones would lock into the dimples on her back. I would walk for both of us, carry her anywhere, and it would be worth it. White.